


The Sun Will Shine On Us Again

by mister_jacobi



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: But I fell in love with my own idea here, F/F, M/M, So I came up with this while completely unable to sleep, and if no one else wants to write it for me I guess I gotta
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2019-12-30 17:05:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18319583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mister_jacobi/pseuds/mister_jacobi
Summary: The Watcher's Crown was a success and the Eye takes over the world.Jonathan Sims is lost.The world is doomed.The Archival Staff has failed.





	1. Long Story Short, They Did Make Me Their God.

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me at four am, while unable to sleep and I just... want to apologize for the bastardization of Elias in this fic. I promise it will all make sense.  
> This is just the introduction. The whole thing - if I finally manage to stay interested for longer than a week - will be different and explain everything that's happening.

What was left, was a world of beauty.  
Nothing was Unknown and Darkness nonexistent. The Eye had made sure that it would disappear. That there would not a single point on this planet that wouldn't be watched. There was no coexisting with these entities. They were an antithesis and the Eye wouldn't stand for this.

What prevailed was Knowledge, Connection, Information and only the necessary allies that had been dragged along.

What remained were doors opening in places they shouldn't.  
A familiar stranger with a face that once belonged to a name and eyes that once wore kindness. The impossibility brought new information for the Archivist to feed on. New knowledge to devour. To lose himself in. New bodies, that would drop from one or another door. The impossibility would try to keep him fed and satisfied on most days.  
On others, cutting, sharp laughter would ring through the tower whenever her eyes found the sight of the Archivist.  
Laughing at what he had become with her help. The monster he was now representing, the being of cruelty and fear that reigned over the world. The Archivist.  
Helen would laugh at Jon and more often than not, he found himself laughing along, sometimes their laughter ended with both their not-quite-faces-any-more covered in small wet lines of tears.  
Sometimes, however, he would decide that the spiral wasn't worth it and try to get her. Decide that she had been granted to exist as a myriad for long enough and would no longer be a necessity. Sometimes the Archivist would move and leave his throne to reach for her.  
In the fight, that always ensued, her sharp and impossible hands would cut him up while she would burn under his gaze, her secrets melting away and retreat into her door before he could feast on her.

The Archivist was sure that she would keep him satisfied for an eternity if he ever got her. Every taste was already enough to keep spirals fill him up and reshape him.

But it would take a little longer, he found.  
She feared him now and he enjoyed their little game of cat and mouse far too much to just kill her instantly. Coming by entertainment was hard for someone like him.  
She was interesting enough for him to want to keep her around just a little while longer.

There were more allies though, those that worshiped him and knew to look at him with fear and those that only waited for a moment of weakness to take over. To try and steal his crown.  
But he was all seeing and no one, nothing would ever manage to outsmart him again.  
There were those that sometimes still referred to the Archivist with a human's name. That sometimes dared to forget how much better, how much above them he was now.  
That the human had been devoured completely, taken over.  
Yet whenever these two came in, those two long-promised lovers that had devoted themselves to their gods so long ago, the Archivist felt _joy_.  
That, he allowed the human to feel. Kept the mind alive, just enough to still suffer.

 _When will the fear end_? He had once asked him. Whispered it into his recorder.  
_Never_ , the Archivist had whispered back.  
If there was one thing that eternity was meant for. It was fear.

 

“Elias” He greeted one of them and he bowed in front of him. “You brought the lonely.” And the other one bowed.

The other one, the Archivist didn't like. The lonely.  
A necessary ally to have The Watcher's Crown a success, but the Archivist hated seeing him in his own iron tower.  
It was his.  
The Lonely had taken from him before and the Archivist wouldn't let it happen again.  
He had made sure to bring that message across clearly.  
Now the Lonely was blind.  
The eyes belonged to him.  
They were now part of his crown, looking around in fear from on top of the Archivist's head, seeing himself with empty holes where they should have been and his love, the Archivist's loyal subject, with bloody hands and a manic look on his face.  
It had been the first time, that the Archivist had laughed.  
Perhaps, the Archivist pondered, the joy wasn't the human's all alone. Perhaps he liked seeing his subjects too.  
Elias, his Elias.

He belonged to him and was so good to him. To have helped him take over, to have given him this body.  
And so he granted him a kiss.

“Your beauty is immeasurable,” Elias whispered into his ear and the Archivist _knew_ that he was aware that no one else was granted this. The Archivist _knew_ how important it made him feel and he _knew_ that if there would ever again be situation where his Elias had to decide between his god and his love, the Watcher's Crown would gain a fresh pair of eyes, the blood staining him and drip-dropping down his face, drying and leaving their mark.  
And so the Archivist let him stay. Let him be his.  
He let him nestle in the webs the spiders webbed for him.  
Elias, the Archivist's sweet pet. So ready and willing to give himself up and let the Archivist feast.  
“Oh Elias, you don't know how little I care about your perception of beauty,” He whispered right back, their lips gracing and Elias' eyes fluttering shut. The Archivist kept his eyes wide open.

“You are mine, yes?” The other just nodded, eager like a child, to give himself away and be devoured.  
“And as mine, I will keep you, Love.”  
The Archivist would feast on him by feeding him what he desired.  
The man was a junky and the Archivist knew how to keep those satisfied.  
The Archivist knew.  
Elias shuddered and gave himself away.

 

 

Those that were aware of the changes had fled in time to not be devoured instantly. They had gone to where they thought that no one would see them, where they had expected no eyes to follow.  
Some said it was the Archivist's last act of humanity to let those go that helped _Jon_ find his place on his thrown.

Or maybe, some wondered, it was Jon's last plea for them to save him and kill him.  
Martin was sure that it had been a plea.  
Melanie thought it to be the cruelty of the archivist and told Martin repeatedly that letting them live had nothing to do with Jonathan Sims. It was just the Being that _looked_ like him.  
Basira saw it as a chance. She shared Melanie's idea, that Jon could not be saved, that he had been beyond saving the moment he sold his soul to the Institute.

  
She didn't intend on trying either, but she was sure that Jon gave them another chance to liberate the world of the eye and if that was, what he had wished when he ensured their survival, then at least it hadn't been in vain.  
At least that's what she told herself.

The Archivist had his own plan. It was plain boredom that made him decide on letting them live. Being all-knowing did tend to become boring if no one tried to kill him.  
He wanted to play before killing them and taking their eyes to see everything  
  
Daisy didn't agree with Basira. Not this time. Always, she told herself, but not this time.

This time around, she sided with Martin, as badly as it broke her heart, Daisy felt like she owed Jon. He had brought her back from the brink of existence, granted her another chance of humanity and if she got one, then so should he.

If the hunter had not been beyond saving, then neither was the Archivist, she decided as if there was still a going back. As if the backpedal was still an option.  
  
She didn't voice any of these thoughts out loud for fear of turning Basira against her. Have her decide that she wasn't worth the risk or have her try to convince her otherwise.

But she did give Martin enough hints to understand that she supported his belief in _Jon._ That she could still be saved.  
  
The Archivist knew all this. He liked watching them argue in their tunnels and pretend he couldn't, as Elias worshiped him, and brought him new people to feast on, as he touched him like no other human was allowed to.  
The Archivist enjoyed the way that _Jon_ would sometimes still try to fight his way to the surface when he saw his people and he enjoyed pushing him back down like he was nothing.  
_Like a worm._  
The Archivist enjoyed the panic, the pain, the pleading begs aimed at his Elias.  
  
The Archivist enjoyed the small bouts of fear that would wash over Elias' face in moments when he became fully aware of what he had done.  
Sometimes Elias would scream together with those the Archivist feasted on.

And the Archivist would laugh in glass-shattering noises.

He'd laugh and slowly, Elias' eyes would start to bleed and his throat would go hoarse and slowly he'd power himself out and fall asleep in the Archivist's arms.

 


	2. Tragedies Don't Have Happy Endings

They fought their way up from the tunnels, towards the land and civilization they had left behind months ago, that they had fled from what might become of the world now that it was lost to an entity that fed on knowledge and fear. Of course, they had watched the world reshape and society adapt to the new orders, they hadn't abandoned humanity like Elias did, as Peter did – as Jon did. But they hid, too aware of the sharp gaze following them everywhere. Sometimes, Martin only ever thought to himself and would never dare to say out loud, it was a surprisingly welcome sensation after all that happened and all that they've been through. After being lonely and alone for so long and knowing nothing else, being watched felt almost like a safe haven. If he tried hard enough and told himself the lie often enough, he could convince him that this all-seeing gaze was comforting. That there was care in it, perhaps love. Martin had once believed in a forgiving God, so who said this one wasn't just as loving? Perhaps he wasn't an entity of fear, but so much more like the concept of holiness, that they had been used to.

  
They allowed themselves a break, some sunlight and the lie that there was still a point in being hopeful. Looking out into the world helped with that, actually, it was still surprisingly functional. Many had not even realized that the world had ended yet. It was surreal, they just kept going, living their lives, fighting with family, going to work and celebrating on weekends as if nothing had changed. So many were unable to see the horrors that made up the world, it dawned on them slowly, but only a couple of people had the sight, only those that had been touched by the supernatural already, only those that society had given up and marked as insane already.  
Being outside, however, was still a terror. No matter how badly you try to make yourself believe that things could be worse and 'at least society still functions' and 'maybe he is still there', after over thirty years of living in a world with a sky filled with sun, the moon and stars, sources of light that would cast shadows and which's absence should bring darkness, there was no way of sweet talking the fact that the Watcher's Crown had lead to a ubiquitous caliginosity. The absence of any umbrage.  
Where there once was a ball of fiery fury, there now was an eye, colossal and unblinking, all-seeing, unleaving, that dipped the world in a shade of orange and swallowed every image it could get.

  
“I'd almost say it's beautiful,” Daisy broke the silence that had fallen over them at their first glance at the outside world in what felt like weeks. The whole band flinched in sudden alert, all of them lost in thought and their own fear, staring right back into the monstrosity that filled the firmament.

“You know if it wasn't so fucked up.”  
She was right, Martin guessed, it was quite beautiful if you managed to ignore the bulbous eye that only seemed to grow with every day and seemed to take up more and more of the vast space in the eternity that was supposed to be a big blue sky.  
“Do you think he can see us?”  
Now they looked at him, judging. How dare he still think of the one they lost, the one they sacrificed, that was willing to sacrifice himself. How dare he still wonder if they could save him.  
“No.” Basira talked without mercy. “ _Jon_ can't see us. _Jon_ is dead.” The way she said it implied all they needed to know. Jon was dead, but the being that stole his face could see them. That monster, this beast was watching and she wouldn't stand for anyone trying to give her hope and try to make her believe that the human was still anywhere inside. Jon was dead and no one was able to bring him back.  
And with that she continued to walk.  
Sometimes Martin wondered if she took it worse than him. Worse than any of them. She liked him before everything went to shit, before it all got so much worse than any of them could have anticipated. She was one of the only ones to admit it.  
She even thought Jon was funny, which in itself was the best joke Martin had ever heard. He had adored Jon, but funny had never been an adjective he would have associated with this man.  
He knew better now. He understood his fatalistic and self-deprecating humor now. He could go for some god awful joke of his. At least it would mean he was there.

 

“Don't you think that would only be worse for him? If he was still in there? Seeing everything the Archivist does? The pain It inflicts?”  
Martin's stomach turned at Melanie's words. It. _It._ Jon, his, their Jon was not an It, would never be less than Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist, professional pain in the ass, loved by everyone and liked by none.  
Martin wondered if there would come a day when he wouldn't want to cry over the tragedy that made up their lives.  
“So you think he's gone too?” He swallowed around the lump of hopelessness and sadness that had made itself a home in his throat and seemed to grow to a more and more suffocating size with every day.

“I hope so,” she nodded and gently put a hand on Martin's shoulder. She knew he suffered, but there was nothing else they could do.  
As much as it pained him, even Martin had to admit, that yes, it would be much worse if he was still there. Jon was always out to inflict peace, never pain, never war, never death.  
The deaths he had blamed himself for had eaten him up from the inside. Sasha and Tim never did leave his heart or his nightmares for that matter.

  
Martin still remembered vividly, lying next to him, soothing him after a nightmare, stroking his sweaty, oily hair and playing with the gray curls. Martin remembered telling him that everything would be fine, that they were almost done, there was only one more hurdle, one less fight to win and the war would be over.

Martin had never been good at math though and had miscounted. Two fights and one of them was much against their favor.

Jon had been crying, screaming, kicking and fighting against him, sobbing the names of those they lost.

It was the most vulnerable Martin had ever seen him, when he had looked up at him, with tear stained cheeks and big helpless eyes, as he admitted, his voice barely a whisper, that he didn't ever want to forget them. That as selfish as it was, he didn't want to stop mourning or feeling regret and guilt over their deaths. He had begged Martin then, to not ever let him forget, for it grounded him and kept him sane. The pain was a reminder that he was human.  
Jon had already viewed himself as a monster, but in his mind, the line would be crossed once the guilt was gone.  
Martin had just pulled him into a tight embrace and kissed the roots of his hair. “You are still human. You are good,” he had whispered and believed it.  
“Promise me,” Jon had said then, his voice stronger than before – determined, “that you'll kill me before I lose myself. Don't let them get me.”  
"I promise," Martin had answered, not meaning it and sure he would never be asked to follow through.

This probably made him more monstrous than any of the beings living high up in that tower from which the Archivist watched its subjects.  
Perhaps, Martin pondered, he should have noticed it then. Jon's fear of being inhuman had been so present and maybe he had known or felt it, the change. It had only been months before the ending that no one had seen coming, not even the ones whose job it was to know. But that was no excuse because what Martin knew was, that he failed to follow through on this simple request. How could he ever have killed him? His Jon? He was much too selfish to ever sacrifice the man that meant the most to him.  


A tower so tall, it was visible, no matter where you stood. So great and gorgeous, Martin wanted to write a thousand poems about its beauty and all but feast them to the beast himself.  


If Martin squinted his eyes and repeated the lie often enough in his head, he could swear he saw a man standing in one of the windows, looking down at them, watching, always watching.  
He was sure he saw blond and gray curls framing a face marked by the horrors it had seen and a long lean body, with too little weight on it and cutting bones that spoke of a spirit that had long since stopped caring for itself.

And when he lied to himself like that? Martin surprised himself when he didn't just take off and run right into his arms. His Jon. His Archivist.  
But as love sodden as he was, Martin was still a smart man and he knew he shouldn't give up, knew he could fight what took over, Martin knew he could save him. He just had to find out how.

 

“We shouldn't stay outside for too long. I wouldn't want him to find us.” Basira reminded them. Her worry was justified, but it was one of the points over which they actually fought a lot. Was he still looking for them? Did he even want them dead? Why had he let them go in the first place?  
To play cat and mouse, was Melanie's take. The Archivist got bored sometimes and they seemed to give him an endless supply of fear and secrets to swallow.

Looking at the world was almost cleansing. Watching the not-quite-a-sun settle into not-quite-dusk, Daisy was right, it was beautiful and so so so bad.  
The tower ascended over the rest of the world, so very visible and brutally cowing.  
It stood where the institute once was and had swallowed every worker that had happened to be inside the building, trapping them inside the walls. Martin could only wonder what happened to them but he suspected that Jon would happen to know quite literally everything about them now. Secrets were forbidden under his new rule.  
“I suppose you're right. Let's go back,” Martin said with a sigh and stood up from the stairs on which he sat. Enjoy it while it lasts, and don't be stupid. Don't risk more than necessary. Those were the rules to survival.  
  


 

 

That night, Martin actually managed to fall asleep quite easily. It was a rarity, but a welcome one. He couldn't remember a time when he didn't treasure every minute of sleep he could gather. Even back in school, a good nights sleep was nothing usual for him.  
When sleep overcame him though, he felt too aware of his surroundings. A darkness he hadn't been able to see in months that swallowed him whole and hugged him like a blanket. It felt peaceful.  
Far away, he could see someone standing. A tall and lean figure and familiar eyes.  
A familiar voice that whispered his name in disbelief.  
“Jon?” It wouldn't be the first time he dreamed of him, but it felt _wrong._  
The figure just stood and watched.  
“Jon!”  
He tried to run towards him but felt unable to move.  
The other person just stood as well, merely a passive observer. But Martin was sure it had to be him. His Jon. His Archivist. His everything. He knew. Martin  _knew._  
“You still dream, don't you? You are alive. You can see me. Answer me, Jon!”  
There was no reaction.  
“Please!” This was more a sob than anything.  
They stood in the vastness, a darkness that swallowed and consumed and Martin wanted to reach out to him. Wanted to hold him just once more.  
“We'll save you, I promise.”  
_Perhaps, though, this wasn't his Jon at all. Perhaps_ , a voice inside his mind, that sounded an awful lot like the calculating voice of Basira, said, _this was The Archivist itself watching him, tracking him, finding them and attacking soon._  
“I lo-”  
“Don't.” His breath hitched, he hadn't thought he would ever hear him again. He sounded awful, sad and tired and... broken in just this one single word. “Tell me when we meet again,” Jon said and from this distance, Martin wanted to make himself believe he saw a sad smile playing around his lips.   
And with that, he woke up and for the first time in months, he did feel hope.  
Jon was alive, he knew it now for sure. Jon was alive and they could save him, he just hoped Jon believed in them as much as Martin believed in him.

 


End file.
